


Dreamers

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Ending, Ascian, F/M, Tempering, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: 5.1ish. FemWoL.  Darkfic, Alternate ending.  Agreeing to Elidibus' demands, the Warrior of Light is whisked away to an unknown plane; unable to contact her companions and lacking resources, she struggles to survive.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Elidibus
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	1. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a request.
> 
> Please heed the tags, this series of events does not lead to the happiest story progression. There's no sexual content, the rating is just precaution.

The Signal is gone; already the plan goes awry.

“Your companion will be returned when you come with me.”

Such was the agreement: a simple trade, but not one without risk. Having previously bested him, the Ascian knew your power and was in no position to act brashly on his own, and yet -

“You are in no place to bargain.” Elidibus dismissed your threats, shrugging them off like a toddler pounding on its parents’ legs midst a tantrum. “You will come. Speak to your _friends_ , if you so desire. Plan as you will –“

Into foreboding darkness, he slipped, portal closing rapidly that you mightn’t follow.

“- But you _will_ come.” His faint whisper, low and deep, echoed through the rift; as much promise as threat, Elidibus knew that which motivated you.

And knew you’d no convenient solution to the imposed dilemma, not as he raised the stakes.

The first was met with pragmatism: they were an unfortunate, but necessary sacrifice; with your freedom, more might be saved.

Such was the expected outcome – and Elidibus’ willfulness easily overcame the Scions’.

He’d not stopped at one.

The rift mindlessly denies any living visitors, clinging to the aether that makes up their essence; seeking loopholes and permeating cracks, it searches in effort to rend flesh asunder, dissipating hapless invaders within its realm.

Elidibus’ magicks are equally shield and threat, a gentle reminder that your existence continues only at his mercy.

Through the Ascian’s veil, blinded senses shift; nothingness takes form in blinding darkness, the temperate air of your destination all but burning over reforming, too-sensitive flesh. Ambient aether releases its impenetrable grasp and you breathe, if only to ascertain that the body remade by Elidibus remains true and whole.

The beacon in your hands might well be a toy for all the use it serves; intended to guide, the rift’s destructive nature dispelled its enchantments, leaving it but a hunk of metal. With the beacon’s failure, so too does the Ascian’s trail fade; with neither beginning nor end, Elidibus’ route remains known to immortal alone.

Wherever you have materialized, you are on your own, the Aetherial Rift’s nature stripping away any remaining hope of external aid.

The air is unfamiliar, but you are not like to call your surroundings alien: spires and jagged formations of violet, both chaotic and orderly in their formation, are far too familiar a sight to be considered foreign. 

Nay, not foreign: your surroundings are formed by the crystals of creation's laws.

Fourteen seats headed by a statue; this is a locale you know – and yet not. Replacing endless darkness are crystalline paths; layered above and below, small islands dot the blackness, some covered and spanning multiple layers, others not, each existing on a scale far grander than aught you’ve seen, save within Emet-Selch’s memory of Amaurot.

By scope alone, ‘twould not be surprising if the space contains the sole remaining fragments of their people’s once flourishing capital.

“Explore as you will.” More distant than cold, Elidibus displays curious apathy, speaking as if through a wall, not truly looking upon the spoils of his hard-won battle.

“After all that, you’re just. . .leaving me?” With imposed apathy, Elidibus’ intentions remain unclear. His persistence yields desired results, yet his final course is imprisonment; surely, he wants for more.

“So long as you do not interfere, there is no need for antagonism between us; you’ll come to no harm unless you cause it yourself. We’ve seen more than enough of that.” At long last he looks to you. “You think we take pleasure in our duties? Do _you_ take pleasure in the blood your cause mandates you spill?” A low chuckle, controlled and neutral, reveals no amusement and you cannot but sense growing cracks in the Emissary’s façade; no longer is this the smiling individual once pursued outside the Sands. Elidibus is much Ascian as any of the others you’ve confronted – and slain.

“I will find a way out.” There is wisdom in holding your peace and such is, admittedly, a fool’s display of bravado, but no matter the truth in his slippery, all too dangerous words, you mustn’t reveal pessimism or vulnerability.

“I certainly hope so. Far greater minds have struggled at that very cause for millennia.” Phrased as challenge more than quip, such overconfidence is not uncommon for his ilk, but in this matter, mayhaps ‘tis not without cause. Without companions or the proper tools, and with such a tenuous grasp on the nature of surrounding space, any potential research will be limited.

As if by habit, Elidibus grasps his hands in his lap.

“If you’ve no further questions. . .?” Though Elidibus is naught if not patient, he displays little more than fleeting interest; at your prolonged silence, he turns as if to walk away.

“That’s it?” After all the trouble, he can’t mean to just _leave you_.

“What were you expecting?”

“I–“ Without explanation or answer, Elidibus is gone, flesh dissipating into the surrounding darkness like early morning’s mist to the midday light.

* * *

Seconds tick to minutes and perhaps even minutes to bells, for all the distinction between time exists in the enclosed plane, and Elidibus shows no signs of returning.

Perhaps he watches, entertained at his prisoner’s bafflement – or perhaps he does not, returning to his business on whichever fragment suits his fancies. It matters not; Elidibus has granted you free roam of your prison and, despite circumstances, curiosity blooms impatience, setting your feet to motion.

Across crystalline layers and gilded walkways, wanderlust guides; each gentle step echoes, carried on unseen winds through the empty windows of buildings that scrape both sky and abyss. Even the softest breaths are harsh in your hearing, amplified beyond rationality until your head pounds in time with each heartbeat and your chest with each footstep.

Up and up, down and down; there must be some sense to the twining, interconnected layers, but your clouded senses cannot fathom the logic that the Amaurotines once prided so greatly.

“Hello?” Once more you call futilely through the cavernous darkness of an empty lobby; once more, you receive no reply, seats long since unused by the living.

Even after bells of wandering you claim little progress. In time, there might be merits to exploring the buildings in full, but none seem capable of providing answers to the location or state of the world you’ve been trapped within.

The novelty of exploration wears quickly; without lessons and history, such as those strewn throughout Emet-Selch’s city, there’s little to be learned. Not even a refreshingly long muscle stretch pushes through dwindling motivation, as you exit the building into another identical stretch of passage suitable only for individuals of far greater stature than Hydaelyn’s current inhabitants.

Out into the open once again, a movement catches your eye – not a wholly uncommon event when the space constantly distorts about you, the churning darkness a consistent distraction for the senses – and you turn. No individual greets you, nor shade of one, nor even beast, but a layer below, some distance off, _something_ moves – a something you’d recognize anywhere:

An aetheryte spins on its axis in time with the plane’s unseen aetherical waves; deep violet instead of blue, the metallic leaves decorating it are as black as the surrounding space, making it seem to disappear into the darkness for brief seconds before reappearing, whole and untouched.

How. . .expected. Neither color nor presence come as a surprise after Emet-Selch’s recreation. If it proves a true aetheryte, it might ease travel through the city; if not, then at least you’ll have basis for the surrounding districts.

A quick glance around the upper layer reveals the path to your destination. The walk is as uneventful as all the rest, surroundings so different that you cannot even draw upon relieved familiarity that might otherwise have birthed nostalgia. Violet crystals of various shades cluster and jut from the paths, fracturing Amaurot’s otherwise structured organization. Though the routes remain clear, inconsistencies plague pathways; benches, crystallized flora, and lampposts are present along the roads, but half formed and placed with uncertainty. The buildings are equally illogical; unliving plants drape down the entirety of one side, only to abruptly end when turning a corner, as if in conflict o’er its very presence.

This vision of Amaurot is neither living nor ghost, but a broken corpse prevented from healthy decay; if the Amaurot of the First was born of Emet-Selch’s memory, then this city was forged of the muddied consciousness of countless minds.

The aetheryte proves as dead as the surroundings, not responding to any attempts at attunement. Locales that might otherwise be vaguely recognizable – by placement, if not appearance – are as half complete as all the rest. But even knowing that, your gaze roams, falling onto a building you’ve yet to truly learn.

In the distance, the capitol towers over the Macarenses Angle. Though logic dictates a venture inside will offer little in the way of succor or solution, your feet heed little rationality, returning you once more to that day of fate and flame – of lost truths and forgotten histories.

Before you might convince yourself otherwise, the entryway eases open, welcoming the city’s sole inhabitant.

A journey over golden tiles, full absent of the surrounding city’s crystal, might once have taken no more than a few seconds – and far fewer paces, certainly – in the world ‘twas intended for, but as stagnant air fills your lungs and steals your breath, exhales are as ragged and harsh as Emet-Selch’s rejections. Each foot that falls rouses another memory of his fateful arguments – and of the Ancients’ despairing flails as flames fall from the sky.

Standing as you once did – as _he_ once did – in this place of memory – a place you know not at all – you relive that fateful day of both past and present.

You lift a hand onto the door.

No fire greets your palm; no explosive waves heat force you back. The path complies, opening with ease and granting passage into the darkness with but a step. 

\- And but a single step. A portal more indigo than violet rouses at your feet before you can progress further; tumbling more than traveling, the induced magicks summon as surely as Atomos’ maw, denying any option save obedience.

Mind awakens before senses, and with it, regret at the thoughtlessly confident progression that led to failure at heeding your surroundings. An instant later as flesh reforms, senses rouse, though there is so very little to know. The small room, if it can e’en be called such, is lit low by half cones – that it is lit at all seems nigh miraculous – and absent all other décor save an oversized bed and table. Through the air, fine particles are roused from their rest at each step, exhales sending them dancing through the sky, more akin to flakes of snow than ash or dust.

But you are not the sole source of their flight.

Hand on weapon, you turn, stomach flopping as anxiousness flows your veins, setting your heart beating and senses on highest alert.

 _Someone_ is there. 

On the floor, curled into a ball under an oversized blanket, _something_ rests. Thin and covered in ghastly crystals reminiscent of those covering Nero during your trip to the Thirteenth, is a person – and not an Ancient, judging by the stature. Its breaths are shallow and consistent, but curiously slow; your arrival and subsequent movements have done naught to disturb its prolonged slumber.

You loose a long breath, but the anxiousness refuses to fade so easily. Through heightened senses, you observe its miserable state; its frail flesh clings to its bones, more leather than skin, embedded crystals releasing a soft hum, the produced energy coursing into the being who is more corpse than living. Is it capable of sight, if it opened those thin eyelids?

A harsh rasp – broken, pained, and far deeper than yours – draws your attention away from the sleeping stranger. With widened eyes, and an adrenaline induced intensity you’d sooner discard, you search the room.

_One. . .two. . .three. . ._

Preserved within the strange chamber are five beings; each more crystal than Spoken, they exist within various states of transformation. In the deepest – more crystal than man – their contact with the plane proves more a pulsing release of energy than breath, the crystals keeping them in a state of eternal undeath.

And yet, even in their monstrous state they are clearly cared for. What hair remains to be brushed is brushed; their faces are clean, their bodies are washed, and their blankets are securely fastened. Small though mortal comforts might be in Elidibus’ twisted plane, they are comforts, nonetheless. Mayhap once, in the distant past, these entities were offered the same freedoms you yet retain.

But, then –

Is this accursed fate Elidibus’ final gift to Hydaelyn’s detested _Crystal Bearers_?

Near the individual most lost, you kneel, running a finger down the crystal that replaces flesh; hard and cold, it is contrastingly lifeless and containing the husk’s _only_ remaining life. It rouses at your touch; though lacking eyes to look upon the intruder, its aether roams curiously, attracted to your presence like vilekin to incense.

At first budding, with prolonged contact the trapped essence soon streams, crystalline flesh glowing in its passage. As flow coalesces, a vortex forms under your fingertips, slinking up your arm, burning hot like the numbing, pulsing tingle of a limb long slept. Invisible to the naked eye, foreign aether stains bare flesh and slips beyond, permeating your essence with its comforting warmth. Into the the deepest crevices of your soul, it delves, rousing only upon reaching your essence and soothing your rapidly beating heart.

The husk does not fear – and nor should you.

With knowledge imparted, the crystal at your fingertips shatters – and the being along with it; any remaining life within its vessel departs, absent aught that might permit it to cling to its miserable existence.

With clenched fist, you look down on otherwise unchanged digits.

_You did this._

Whether harsher, louder breaths are truly roused in the remaining occupants, or if the regrets born of dire error awaken delusion, you know not, but you whisper, nonetheless, voice cracking as did the crystal within your palm:

“I’m sorry.”

“The dreamers long to be whole.” With a gasp, you stand to meet the intruder, impending danger overcoming sorrow, but Elidibus graciously keeps his distance, choosing to observe from the distant entryway. “Is it so terrible to grant their final wish?”

He offers a bow, but whether ‘tis to you, or to the crystalline dreamers, you know not, before returning once more into the darkness.

“- Just as you did on the First.”


	2. X, XI

**X**

* * *

_She sleeps, dreaming a shared dream; bound more by memory than delusion, the fragments know millennia of respite, existing within a collective unconsciousness not yet theirs in truth._

_Through the eras, she sleeps, but the Eleventh’s Rejoining grants succor and her eyes flutter, rousing under light lids._

_Elidibus needs not watch as the change comes upon her -_

_But he does, nonetheless, for she is all that remains in this broken world._

At some point, twixt seemingly endless slumbers, stubborn denial slips into lamenting acceptance of the inevitable:

Escape is impossible.

Would that you’ve the energy you once had – the ambition – but resources having quickly run dry, you’re left malnourished and exhausted; even the simplest duties and tasks are nigh impossible to fulfill without frustrated pants, more harsh gasps than breaths, exemplifying the enervation brought upon the even the simplest ventures.

Clinging as might the Shroud’s stubborn burrs, persistent thorns tug at tattered clothes, irritatingly refusing to budge without extended attention. Torn cloth, fraying at the edges and popping at the seams, repeatedly and exhaustingly catches on crystalline flowers far more resilient than their delicate appearance belies. More akin to Mor Dhona or the remnants of the Thirteenth than Lakeland, the gardens decorating the replicated city’s center are different than those in the greater, distant surroundings; as if special care was taken on their detail, the violet plants are delicately formed, petals and leaves so precise that they might well be frozen in an instant of time.

“Halmarut would not stand for such unsightly overgrowth. I thought to remedy the issue before it might be seen.”

“You did this?” Standing as abruptly as lethargy allows, you pull tattered attire near, masking their disastrous state under a fragile guise of presentability. How convenient that Elidibus that arrives when he does, in a locale he has spent such time perfecting.

Perhaps, once, ‘twas a passion, and this garden the sole remains of a life long-lost.

Such are an exhausted mind’s curious wanderings.

“Spare me your awe. It was. . .” Elidibus silences himself, avoiding a curiously similar reaction to Emet-Selch’s. Correcting his course with nigh flawless ease, the underlying irritation previously in his tone is wholly concealed; truly, Elidibus proves worthy of his title. “This is but a trifle of the ability you deny the world.”

Elidibus lifts a hand, a gently light coalescing within the golden brown of his gloves. In a flash, the aether solidifies and, floating above palm rests a fresh bloom of clear crystal, wholly foreign and unique in the surrounding violet.

It is neither display of ability, nor offering, but a whim of a little god; just as easily, he might have created one of the many creatures that now roam Source and fragment freely.

As could any of his people.

Of your people, once.

“No matter how beautiful, I cannot -” Whether referring to star or flower, you know not, and you pause, that uncertainty might be shed.

“And that is why you remain here.” He says such without criticism, fully accepting the inevitable moral relativism. “I’ve no wish for strife.”

His gaze turns instead to his crystalline dream, gaze lingering as it roams the city, and yours follow in turn.

At some point during your rest, the Angle, already formed with certainty found lacking in other districts, transformed; images once inconsistent and flawed are clarified: street lamps, unnecessary with the plane’s persistent ambient lighting, mimic the originals with such accuracy that they might be used; buildings once little more unrefined chunks now have clear barriers – and the gardens, Elidibus’ and Halmarut's gardens -

“The dream solidifies.” He explains unprompted, the beginnings of a trace smile decorating his features. It is but a momentary tranquility, for his eyes soon fall onto you. “Your attire.” Having previously had the grace to stay silent, it seems Elidibus can no longer hold his tongue. “Mine apologies, I’d forgotten my purpose.”

Again he offers his hand; beside the flower rests an item you’ve seen before – though perhaps not in truth: a matrix.

“I don’t –“ You cross your arms, concealing seams holding together with so very few stitches.

“If you wish to stroll about without clothes, you are quite welcome to, though I’d hoped you might show care for your dignity.” Elidibus is firm, but not harsh; he has made an offering of aid and it is your decision whether to take it. “At the very least, they will offer comforts as you rest.”

The concepts within Emet-Selch’s memory were vague and incomplete, as much dream as Elidibus’ city, but you might yet be able to make use of the Ancients’ tools.

“Did you offer the same to – to –“ What little condemnation you might rouse in your weariness falters; you know better to ask that which you already know the answer: the dreamers remain covered and cared for, treated with, perhaps, the greatest respect Elidibus might grant a mortal. He once provided the same conveniences to them as he now does you.

“You’ll not become like them if you continue this course.” Doubts revealed, Elidibus offers gentle reassurance; placing the items into your open hands, the tips of his fingers meet yours - the sole contact you’ve had with an individual since your arrival.

His touch falls away nigh instantly, Ascian ignorant to the lingering tingle of long-unused sense.

“Why are _they_ e’en here? They are no longer a hindrance to your plans.” Though his mask is impenetrable, you know the intensity of Elidibus’ stare.

“I keep them safe until the time is right.” Underlying evasive explanation is a firm determination, equal yours in every way.

 _Safe –_ what absurdity. Yet, it’s undeniable that this place is naught if not _safe_ , no matter how Elidibus might dance and twist in his explanations.

“I see.” Distantly fingering the crystalline flower’s clear leaves – no directed light source exists that it might produce the sparkle of a rainbow, but, mayhap, someday it will shine once more - you place newly acquired matrix into your long-emptied pack, keeping the bloom in hand. “Thank you.”

There is no point in further dialogue with Elidibus; unlike Emet-Selch, the Emissary continually proves unwilling to discuss either plan or motive – or, truly, anything at all. Turning from the Ascian, you take to the streets; though an unwise journey – you’ve not the strength for any prolonged exploration – you’d sooner avoid further discontent.

Through the city of dreams, a lone dreamer roams; though the catalyst remains unclear, that the plane has changed is undeniable. Large piles of crystal once no more than chunks show the beginnings of formation; in a distant memory of an even more distant world, you’d once have likened the effect to Ishgard’s ice sculptures; harsh and unrefined, with time and artistry they form recognizable shapes.

Before even making it through the district, your energy dwindles, sights both curious and familiar becoming secondary to the burn of your muscles and lungs. Each breath harder than the last, you stumble more than walk to the Macarenses Angle and the room of dreamers - a fool’s venture through sight nigh blinded. If Elidibus remains in the vicinity, he blessedly makes no effort to impede, permitting you the ability to focus wholly on returning.

_Step, step._

Gasps interjecting between sluggish footfall, the plane fades and the slogging repetition of muscles pleading for air consumes your entirety. Through miraculous combination of desperation and stubbornness, your numb limbs succeed in their purpose, collapsing only once you reach your quarters in the capitol. Succumbing to weakness, coughing until your stomach - long empty of aught but bile – heaves, breath escapes before it might be adequately grasped in a chaotic, dizzying flurry. 

Only once you’re as broken as the crystalline dust in the chamber of dreams does the fit soothe, leaving flesh exposed on a far too cold floor. Violet flecks float across blurred vision, roused by trembling breaths, and the sharp leaves of Elidibus’ bloom pierce flesh, slight trickles of blood coating both crystal and hand; you know not the passage of time as you regain your strength, but upon opening your eyes once more you see it: a tiny hand, skin more leather than flesh, rests atop yours, offering what few comforts remain within its power.

It must have taken ages to approach, struggling with untold willpower that it might move even ilms.

_They yearn to be whole._

You loose its weak grasp, taking its mummified hand in yours.

"Thank you."

There is no flashiness in the ritual, nor explosive release of energy; with both participants weakened, the transfer is but slow drain. So gently does the individual’s remaining essence slip from its confines and into your veins that the process's completion is only clear when flesh fades to dust within your palm.

“You have chosen and so it shall be.”

Elidibus motions to a small plate over the previous occupant’s space, just above its now-empty blanket:

The Ninth.

**XI**

* * *

The Ninth falls, and with it, He rejoices.

Purple bands streak the sky, falling stars that plunge through the darkness; with each ardor’s success, His confines are tested, aether rousing within His core – changing, settling, _Rejoining._

The flower rests in her lap, protected even in slumber. Consumed by frailty and unable to drag herself more than a pace, she rests against the wall, head tilting with agonizing familiarity.

Elidibus kneels, trailing fingers through locks loosed from their confines. Though muted behind the confines of his attire, hers is a touch that summons unfading, persistent memory. As once he might have, Elidibus brushes loose strands over her shoulder, that he might trace the blossoming of familiar features –

Features that should rightly be concealed; features once only intended for him.

After so long – after such suffering – the fragments fulfill their purpose.

As must he; duty ever takes precedence.

Faltering only briefly, Elidibus rises, already longing to splay silken strands over bare skin.

“What do you see?” He makes it but two paces before her voice – worn and raspy, but clearly the beginnings of _her_ voice – stills him. A fool’s underestimation, one for which Elidibus has no excuse.

It is not the first time.

Elidibus turns; struggling to stand, she clutches the crystalline blossom – so small in a hand returning to its true form – to her chest. He chooses his words with care, sooner not arousing suspicion; she is far too frail – far too important. “This place changes its inhabitants.”

“You look at me as Emet-Selch once did."

“What did Emet-Selch see?” Elidibus needs not ask; Emet-Selch was bound to the past, lacking objectivity regarding beloved figures.

Her features contort as she struggles to put words to their irrational relationship. "A friend." She settles for, at long last.

"Then no, I do not share Emet-Selch's fantasies." Nay, Elidibus lives outside delusion. The traits he admires are but illusion; deeply inherent to _her_ , they were once displayed by every individual in the room. She nears readiness, yet still lacks. "There is naught to see. Not yet.”

Her frown intensifies as she nears, so close that in meeting her eyes his neck strains.

"Then what do you see, Emissary?" She repeats with stubborn determination that met equal only in Lahabrea, familiar hair falling over her shoulder between them. 

_She knows_ ; awakened by his arrival, she feigned sleep. Having witnessed Elidibus’ fleeting weakness, she capitalizes on the sole weapon remaining to her.

But still she pursues the wrong answers.

_Show her._

Command overcomes will, one he'll not deny - one he has neither wish nor ability to.

Elidibus raises his palm; aether blossoms, eagerly pulsing with the gingerness of fingertips upon hands. “If that is your wish. . .”

With her acquiescence, he releases the flood, that she might delve to depths only he knows.

In the heart of Hearts, only he – _He_ – exists; all within are His and therefore all is Elidibus, save those lost, precious stragglers.

In His world, He knows aught and naught; Elidibus is His eyes and ears, His voice and His touch, for His world is but a shell; blind, deaf, and mute, ever He seeks expansion, but is incapable of expanding.

A shell of Nothing intended for eternity - an eternity quickly proven finite, weakness permitting Elidibus the ability to slip its cracks.

 _How_ He grows; _how_ he yearns to fulfill His duty.

And she is but a singular speck: a distant, fading star in an endless night's sky.

“What. . .is this. . .?” Here, her thoughts are His, and His are his.

Shine though she might, hers is a frail star, yet growing – yet incomplete - and not yet His.

“There is _nothing_ yet.” He speaks with the voice of the plane – the will he oversees. “But there might be. It is for that spark that we’ve struggled. That we’ll _always_ struggle.”

He permits no less.

“That _I’ll_ –“ Elidibus attempts to remove his hand – to break the flimsy connection searing Sundered and Unsundered, but it refuses to heed him; _He forbids._

The darkness - a relentless will of countless souls – deepens.

Hers is a tiny essence, fragile and so very easy to swallow – to stain –

 _No,_ Elidibus will not allow it –

Elidibus pulls back with what willpower remains, the tearing of connection between souls as agonizing as rending flesh, and darkness bleeds through essence’s wound, a gentle persistent trickle of exposure that none might endure.

It will take time, but He will have that which he has long desired.

Dazed, she gasps, falling heavily to the floor on one knee and, for once, Elidibus falters.

-That they _all_ once desired.

“As it once was. As ever it should remain.” He speaks, aware of His victory - for is it not, too, Elidibus’? “Choose another.”

His is an irresistible command; her gaze falls to the nearby dreamer.

The Fourth is next to fall. 


	3. XII, XIII, XIV

**XII**

* * *

In His solitude, there is loneliness.

Once, Ardbert confided his whims; though often stoic, he would speak with his companions just once more, for bells upon bells, overcome by the sorrow of solitude.

But in solitude, there is none of the expected despair.

A curious revelation: so distant is the sensation, it’s as if viewing emotion from behind a wall. But whether they are your protections or His, in truth it matters little.

Wisps of tingles flutter across your cheek; stray aether and embodied memory roam, a lingering memory of spirits long passed. They cannot observe, for they’ve no eyes; they cannot communicate, for they’ve neither voice nor mind; the shades are but vestiges of powerful emotion, attracted to the only truly living individual within His prison.

Once – in a distant past – in a different world – you made a promise.

Their dreams and wills might remain only as memory –

But you will remember them.

In ferocity, one pleads for immediate action;  
Another desires to soothe.  
The empathetic despair at the state of the Star;  
Burdened by the weight of righting wrongs.

Sadness – Longing – Anger –

And above all, the _Love_.

He embodies the dream of Hope and Love.

Dreams once lost are found again, borne by a fragile heart; in the deepest depths of the unknown, you _know_.

The crystalline garden feels of him, a physical embodiment of his thought and memory; here, you know Elidibus.

He wishes to see Halmarut tend the plants again.  
He wishes to attend lecture and debate –  
He wishes for Lahabrea’s rambles and Mitron’s irritability.  
He wishes for the city’s lights to warm the night sky.

And here you know His grace, a dizzying mercy that grants that which is long lost.

As vague and shadowy as the spirits, emotion, more than memory, eases from its confines;

Here, you know _yourself_. 

You slip the crystalline flower into your hair.

“What are you doing out here? Are your quarters inadequate?”

Drab, broken, and confined, they’re very much a prison; no matter the minimal comforts he might be accustomed to, ‘tis baffling Elidibus even asks. Yet, you suppose, you’ve not previously offered complaint.

Elidibus does not demand answer, yet his presence commands it.

“I learn of you.” Harsh and nigh unrecognizable, they are the first words from your lips since Elidibus’ previous departure. “Your will. Their will. Our will.”

“’ _Our?’”_ Elidibus’ curiosity is clear, though he hides it well.

You blink; a phrase not wholly your own, but such intrusive thoughts are alarmingly frequent in recent days – moons – eras. 

And even after the admission, you can but barely recall those fleeting memories. Solid one minute and gone the next, they are as mortal as the rest of your flesh.

“I’ve been away too long.” Elidibus murmurs, caught as unawares by the revelation as you are. “And what do you learn of me?”

How he tries to hide his thoughts –

-how he fails.

In this place, the once impenetrable Emissary now bears his heart.

Though it might yet be another ephemeral dream, fluttering through consciousness before being whisked away like leaves succumb brisk breeze, you _know._

With the barest touch, your fingertips roam the crystalline garden. If each are of his mind – of His flesh – then they, too, are of Elidibus. Stray trails of your essence follow the journey of creation, leaving equal mark on each petal, roaming down the stems and to the hard soil, only to begin anew on another – learning them -

-learning him.

So hesitantly, the aether within responds. With unwilling longing, they would have your touch, just as he’d hesitated when you’d first encircled your arms around Elidibus’ neck –

You’ve never encircled arms around his neck.

The illusion is shattered for but an instant, replaced by the faint warmth of his features; how different, Elidibus is now: His attire, his appearance, his language –

And yet how very similar.

Still he longs for companionship – for completion – and still duty compels – as it does you.

“Claim that which is rightly yours, that we might continue.” The faintest red blooms below Elidibus’ mask; you need no further evidence of His influence, but such is a satisfying display, nonetheless.

Even should you wish to deny him, they are but irrelevant whims. He knows necessity.

With a nod and smile, you step away from the garden.

This time, it is neither accident nor survival.

Kneeling by the most whole on dreamers, the Eighth, your hand cups their tiny, cold, quivering face.

Even if the fragment cannot understand, you offer what comfort you can as the aether builds at your fingertips, harmonizing glow solidifying the bond between two pieces of a broken puzzle.

There needs be no more fear, for in Him, there is but Love.

**XIII**

* * *

She is close, now – the Source, readied. 

As is He.

One final task remains and it’s one accepted in earnest.

Elidibus needs no longer hide behind the mortal’s masquerade; in the depths of His heart, he meets her only as himself, that flickering memory might linger – that recognition not swiftly fade to confusion.

Her hand is warm in his, as he guides it onto the bare, soft flesh of the final bearer of her soul.

“How familiar. . .” She muses, as essence flows twixt cracks, sealing them in great Rejoining.

He was once of the Thirteenth.

**XIV**

* * *

The night’s is a bright darkness, finite and clear, speckled with golds and blues that punctuate the sky and reflect from the sea - a gentle, freeing darkness, more like to welcome than swallow.

Amaurot’s is the darkness of fulfillment: Of promise, of duty, of hope.

“Will you not go out?”

“Not tonight.” It’s been so very long – and he’s been through so much. “I’d sooner stay with you.” You lean back until your vision is swallowed by red and white.

The pain will not easily subside, be it from memory or pragmatic necessity. But theirs is a supportive, resilient people; even regrets fade with time.

Already the gates of Anyder reopen; already the Bureau of the Architect works to restore its library; already the star’s chaos becomes law, comforting tranquility descending upon once-broken land.

On the morn, a new Lahabrea will be accepted into His grace, and once more, all will return to rights.


End file.
